


Schisms

by Singing_Violin



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-04-13 11:40:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 17,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4520556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singing_Violin/pseuds/Singing_Violin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What could possibly cause these two to break up? A series of short stories explaining the reported status of Mulder and Scully's relationship upon the revival miniseries. Each chapter is an independent breakup story (no need to read all of them, or in any particular order).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mojo

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The X-Files characters and universe are not mine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder's stubborn. Scully's had enough. A lighthearted take.

"God, Melvin, I wish you were really here."

Sitting on the desk, hands folded, Frohike chuckled.

"You look like hell, Mulder," he said. "What's wrong?"

The former FBI agent shook his head. "Scully's finally come to her senses and abandoned me."

Frohike raised an eyebrow. "Now I wish I were really here too... I mean, if she's available."

"Hey, cool it, ghostie boy," Mulder responded, popping a sunflower seed into his mouth. "After all, you don't want to be a rebound."

"Doesn't matter," the ex-gunman reminded him. "I'm not really here, remember? Anyway, what happened?"

Mulder sighed and put his head in his hands for a moment. "I called her bluff. Only she wasn't bluffing."

"Go on," Frohike prompted.

"She told me it was her or the beard," he explained, looking back up, relieved to see the continued presence of the apparition. "I refused to shave."

"Geez, Mulder. You've done a lot of boneheaded things, but that's just...and that beard does look _awful_ on you," he pointed out. "Why not just shave it?"

He sighed. "It's a mojo thing. Sports-related. Red Sox refused to shave their beards all season."

"But you're not a Red Sox fan," Frohike pointed out. "You root for the enemy." All of a sudden, the smaller man was wearing a Yankees cap.

"I know," said Mulder, "but I _am_ from Massachusetts, and they did win the World Series with that shtick."

Melvin nodded knowingly. "Now I get it. You thought you'd employ the same mechanism to get what you want. Only you didn't get it."

"I still could," Mulder replied. "I'm waiting."

"But in the meantime, you've lost Scully."

Mulder spat out a sunflower shell. "Yep."

"She's stubborn," Frohike reminded him, "and isn't likely to back down of her own volition. But if I know you two, she'll be back the moment you need her. Though just to be safe, maybe you ought to marquisotte."

"I can't do that," the taller man replied, his voice almost breaking.

"What can possibly be that important, dude?" Frohike asked him.

Mulder chuckled and shook his head, popping another sunflower seed into his mouth. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Realization dawned on Melvin's face. "Please don't tell me this is a test of her loyalty or something. Or worse, to prove to yourself that you're not her whipping boy. A little act of rebellion that could get you in a whole lot of trouble, brother. My advice: just let her have what she wants."

"If only it were that simple," the former G-man mumbled contemplatively.

"Things can be as simple as you want them to be," Frohike said distantly.

"Easy for a dead man to say," Mulder called after the apparition as it faded.

With that, he stroked his beard. "Maybe it's time to say goodbye."

Frohike reappeared for a moment. "To her, or to that...thing on your face?"

Mulder glared at him. "Shut up, Frohike."


	2. William

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tragedy strikes.

_The hospital was deserted, eerily quiet. Doctor Scully wandered through the halls, wondering why she was alone._

_Suddenly, she heard her name: the voice was faint, high, child-like. "Dana?"_

_She broke into a jog, trying to follow the sound of the voice. Finally, she came upon a figure huddled in a corner: a girl, with curly black hair._

_"What's wrong?" Scully asked apprehensively, kneeling down and gently touching the child's shoulder._

_The girl raised her chin and her dark eyes, moist with unshed tears, met those of her would-be rescuer. Immediately the doctor gasped._

_"Samantha?"_

_The girl nodded, her hair bouncing with her chin. "He needs your help."_

_Scully frowned. "Who?"_

_The child gave no reply but a solemn gaze. The doctor reached out a hand and pulled the girl to her feet. "Show me," she begged._

_With that, the girl led her through the hallways to a private room. Though there was no sound, Scully observed a crowd of people gathered around the hospital bed, heads bowed as if in prayer._

_The doctor unclasped the hand of the child in order to turn the doorknob, but upon touching it, she found it sticky. Quickly, she pulled away her hand and observed the redness of blood._

_"What is this?" she asked, turning to Samantha, but the girl was gone._

 

* * *

 

Scully gasped, sitting up in her bed, and was met with the concerned eyes of her former FBI partner.

He grabbed her hands and squeezed them. "It's all right," he murmured soothingly, as he had so many times before. "It was just a nightmare." As he raised one hand to stroke her hair away from her face, guilt bubbled up inside him: he knew, most likely, that this night terror, as many others before it, was borne from their work on the X-Files, the "darkness" she so desperately wanted to get away from, but which followed her relentlessly nevertheless. He too, had dreams, but he'd had them since childhood: he couldn't imagine a life without the hole left inside him when he'd lost his sister. For him, it was a way of life. Monsters in the dark were essential to his existence, but she was a creature of the light: healing the sick, comforting the dying: his wasn't her world. At least not anymore. For her, evil and pain was a cancer, not unlike the physical one she had suffered so many years ago, and which every day he dreaded would return. And as when she'd been physically ill, he could tell her spirit was failing now: more often than not, she had no appetite for food or anything else, and she was so thin that her pale, drawn face added years to her appearance.

Scully nodded, taking deep breaths to calm herself. "I think I'm up," she assessed. "You can go back to sleep if you want. I'm going to go to the hospital to get some paperwork done." It was only a little lie: in truth, she wanted to reassure herself that there was nothing nefarious in that room, not in reality.

"Okay," Mulder answered, eying her askance, obviously unconvinced of her excuse. He'd learned long ago to accept whatever she had to offer: he'd hidden things from her more times than he could count, and he owed it to her to let her keep some secrets too. Many years ago, he'd yelled at her, brought her to tears for hiding things from him: she'd been sick, and struggling to accept the truth herself. Yet he'd treated her like an enemy, and he marveled at the fact that she'd ever forgiven him. They'd been through so much since then, but very rarely had there been a moment when he was sure they were both being completely honest with each other. Perhaps that was why they'd never considered marriage or any other commitment: both were desperate to maintain some semblance of individuality, some privacy in which to hide their secrets and shame.

Thus lying to each other had become a way of life, too. And although he wanted more than almost anything for her to let him in, to share her whole self with him, he also knew it was never going to happen, for the same reason there were certain things he could never admit to her.

So he let her go.

As she scuttled about, he tried to fall back asleep, but his thoughts were troubled, and eventually he checked his cell phone to see what time it was. It was then that he realized the date: December 22, 2012.

"Scully?" he called out hoarsely, jumping out of bed and running towards the front door, not even bothering to dress first.

She was already gone.

He cursed, then hastily threw on some clothes, hoping she had at least been honest about her destination. He needed to find her.

 

* * *

 

The hospital was still quiet in the wee hours of the morning, but a few orderlies and nurses populated the halls, and patients were visible through the glass windows to their rooms. The sound of monitors beeping softly filled her ears, putting Scully at ease. This was familiar, comfortable, perhaps more of a home than the one she went to at night.

She knew these halls inside and out, and the memory of her dream was still vivid in her mind. She traced the path Samantha had led her through and gasped once again when she observed exactly what she'd seen in her dream: people, huddled around the bed, heads bowed as if in prayer.

But the door was ajar, and she crept towards it, listening to see if she could hear what the people around the bed were saying.

"We loved you very much," said a woman. "You were a gift to us."

"I know you're in a better place now," said a man, his voice choked with tears. "No more pain."

"Our father who art in heaven...," someone began, and Scully looked around to realize there was a priest in the room. Other voices joined in the chorus of the Lord's Prayer, and then slowly, people began to filter out of the room.

One looked curiously at Scully as they passed her, and she attempted to give a reassuring smile while not arousing suspicion. After all, this wasn't her patient, wasn't her business, but as a doctor, she had a plausible reason to be anywhere in the hospital. She planned to use that to her advantage.

Finally, the bed was visible through the glass, and she suppressed a gasp when she observed the figure inside of it: it was an adolescent boy, pale and still, with reddish-brown hair and a dimple on his chin. The two figures remaining were most likely his parents, and they stood close, the man's arm about the woman, whose head leaned upon his shoulder.

Scully attempted to disappear into the shadows as she observed another doctor entering the room. She couldn't quite hear what he was saying to the parents, but they nodded and then left. The doctor drew the sheet up over the boy's face, then wheeled him out of the room.

She knew, given the late hour, that most likely the body would remain in the morgue overnight. She retreated to her office, her heart pounding in her chest and butterflies flittering in her stomach. She closed her eyes and put her head in her hands, a desperate mantra going through her mind: _don't jump to conclusions, Dana; wait for the facts_. When she determined it had likely been long enough for the morgue to be vacated, she headed down.

Once she was alone with the body, she carefully retracted the sheet from his face.

He was the spitting image of a young Fox Mulder, aside from the auburn hair. _Don't jump to conclusions, Dana: wait for the facts_.

She looked over for the boy's charts and quickly found what she was looking for. His name was William Van de Kamp. Adopted in infancy, blood type as she suspected.

_Oh God._

She continued peering over the charts: apparently he had suffered from an unknown and terminal illness, and they hadn't been able to determine what was wrong. There'd been nothing left but to say goodbye.

She looked over once again at the still form, not sure what she was hoping to see. Suddenly the sheet moved slightly over the boy's face, as if he breathed. Quickly, she removed it, and was astonished to see that the boy's eyes were open, and he was looking at her.

"Don't do this," he told her. "Let me go."

Her hand went to her mouth, and wordlessly, she shook her head, not taking her eyes off the boy.

"Mommy, please," came a small, high voice behind her, and reflexively, she turned around to see who had spoken.

Her eyes grew wide at the vision before her. "Emily?!"

The small girl smiled at her. "I'll take good care of my little brother," she said. "I promise."

At that, Scully's eyes returned to the prone boy, who was once again still.

Quickly, she put fingers to his neck, desperately feeling for a pulse, only to find him cold and lifeless. She turned around to see the little girl had vanished as well.

Tears sprang to her eyes and her stomach flip-flopped. Hastily, she put down the charts and bolted from the room.

It seemed like hours later when someone knocked at the door of the bathroom stall where she sat huddled next to the commode, her arms hugging her aching midsection.

"Are you all right?" called a concerned voice.

Suddenly embarrassed, Scully picked herself up off the floor and flushed the toilet. She refused to meet the eyes of the concerned woman as she brushed past her on the way to the sink. "I'm fine," she muttered, hoping the other woman would disappear.

"Doctor Scully?"

Now she had to turn around and look up at the woman. _Shit_. "Yeah. Did you need me for something?"

The woman nodded. "Actually, there's a man here looking for you. He's in your office." _Double shit_.

Scully nodded. "Thanks for letting me know."

With that, she washed her hands, splashed water on her face, then headed out, not looking back to see whether she was still being watched.

When she arrived at her office, she was only slightly relieved to see Mulder sitting at her desk. She had no idea how she would have dealt with anyone else at this moment, and had dreaded that it was someone connected to the boy in the morgue, someone who was going to start asking questions as to why she'd disturbed the body.

Upon sight of her, he instantly rose and placed a hand on her shoulder. He seemed to want to hug her, but as she flinched at his slight touch, he stopped there. "What's wrong, Scully?"

She looked down at the floor and shook her head, then looked back up at him, tears once again trickling down her face.

She took a deep breath. "He's dead, Mulder."

"Who?" Mulder asked apprehensively.

"Our son," she replied evenly, then sobbed, raising a hand to her mouth.

Now he gathered her to his chest and held her close, stroking her back. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

She pushed him away. "The body's in the morgue. I just know." Angrily, she swiped at her tears. "I've lost everything now."

He frowned, taking her hands in his. "You've still got me."

She pulled her hands away. "No. I haven't had you for years. And maybe if I had, he wouldn't have died."

Her words were like a knife through his heart. His voice was thick with distress, "What do you mean, Scully?"

She looked up at him, fire blazing in her overflowing eyes. "He died because I couldn't protect him alone. He's been sick for years. Probably as a result of that magnetite injection Jeffrey Spender gave him right before I...." Her voice broke, and she sobbed again.

"Hey," he replied, anger suddenly rising in him to match hers. "I left because you convinced me it was the only way."

"Yeah, because you'd already screwed up," she pointed out. "You disregarded everyone else, in pursuit of your truth, regardless of the collateral damage. Me. William. And then you did it again, and almost got yourself executed. And you've almost gotten yourself killed more than once since then. I keep saving you, but every time there's a price, and I can't afford it anymore."

He pursed his lips, not sure how to respond. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah?" she responded. "Well, sorry won't bring him back to life."

Mulder's instinct to fight kicked in. "Maybe we can still save him, like you saved me, even after you thought I was dead. Or if we can't, at least we can prove what was done to him. Or maybe it's not even him. Don't give up, remember? Can you get us access to the body and the records? We can solve this, Scully. Did you bother to check the date today? It's colonization day. That's got to mean something. William was supposed to be an integral part of that. He's got to be still alive, somehow."

She shook her head sadly. "Stop, Mulder! I can't hear your incessant theories and keep hope about something I know is lost. I am one hundred percent sure that the body in that morgue is William, that he's not coming back from the dead, and I need to accept that. I gave him away, in hopes that it would keep him safe, but it was already too late. Now I have no authority over him, and it wouldn't be right for me to disturb his family at this time. It's time to give up. It's time to walk away."

"Walk away from what?" asked Mulder, dreading the response.

She fixed him with a determined stare. "Among other things, from you."

He nearly toppled over at the physical force he felt from her words, and grabbed onto the desk for support. "You want to push me away now?" he asked, his voice breaking. _Now, when you need me the most?_

She nodded hesitantly. "I need to. This life...it's over, Mulder. I need to start anew. I'm not the same person you worked with at the FBI. That person is broken beyond repair, dead. The only way I can survive is to be someone else, someone without so much pain. I need to forget the past, and every time I look at you, I remember every last, agonizing detail. I can't look at you without seeing _him_ , Mulder. You know, the first thing I thought when I saw him in that morgue was that he looked just like you. I can't do this to myself anymore. I just can't."

Mulder sighed. "I told you once, when I agreed to father your child, that I didn't want it to come between us."

She looked at him. "Well, it's too late. It already has."

Sadly, he nodded and walked out the door.


	3. Beta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scully makes her choice. Another humorous one.

Dana Scully lounged on the couch, mindlessly stroking the hair of her companion, who lay cuddled up beside her. She murmured incomprehensibly at him, and he rubbed his head against her affectionately.

Then, Fox Mulder shuffled into the room, still in his pajamas, his eyes red and puffy, a crumpled-up tissue in his hand.

When Mulder loudly blew his nose, Scully looked up. "Oh, Mulder," she exclaimed sympathetically. Extricating herself from the warm body on her lap, she rose and walked towards him.

He shied away. "Stay away from me; you'll make it worse."

She sighed. "Have you been taking the medication I prescribed for you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "It makes me feel all fuzzy. Hard to think. Hard to work." With that, he sneezed into the balled-up tissue, but it was full and couldn't contain the result, and afterwards he held his gooey hand out in front of him with a disgusted, stricken look on his face. "Ugh."

She reached over and grabbed a fresh tissue from the box on the coffee table, careful to only touch the corner, then handed it to him gingerly. He grabbed it and began wiping the snot off his hand.

"We can try a different one," she suggested. "There's got to be something that'll work for you."

Sniffling, he looked down and met her eyes. "Yeah, I'm getting out of here."

"What?!" she responded, surprised. "Where will you go?"

"Anywhere but here, Scully!" he replied, coughing slightly. "I can't take this anymore!"

"You know," she pointed out, walking back towards the couch, then gently moving her cuddly friend over and settling back down beside him, "you never had a problem with Karin Berquist. And she was around dogs all the time."

"I'm not sure what you're getting at, Scully. You're the doctor; you can probably tell me what's different now. All I know is that I want to be able to breathe through my nose again, and I can't do that here. Not as long as _it_ is here."

"He," Scully argued. "And if you're asking me to give up Owen, I can't do that. And not just because I promised Agent Doggett I'd take care of him. I've grown quite fond of him, and he doesn't argue with me when I want to snuggle. Plus, after Queequeg and...well, you know, I can't abandon someone else I'm supposed to be caring for."

"So you're choosing the dog over me," he summarized, not quite believing his own words. "After all we've been through, you'd rather be with him?!"

She didn't respond verbally, but gave him a look that told him all he needed to know.

Shaking his head, he grabbed his coat. "All right then, Scully. I'll see you around."

Now she looked askance at him. "Don't you think you ought to get dressed first?"

"No," he told her. "I need to burn all my clothes anyway; I'm buying everything new, free of dander."

"Suit yourself," she said, patting Owen's back, "but don't burn them. Just leave them. Maybe some of them will fit this guy, and the rest, we'll find a use for."

Screwing up his face for one last meaningful look at his erstwhile lover, Fox Mulder walked out the door.


	4. Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if that last M/S scene (before the credits) in IWTB was the breakup?

For the past seven years, Fox Mulder has had a new ritual. When he walks into his bedroom, he closes his eyes, hoping that one day, when he opens them, she'll be there, in bed, waiting for him.

Every day, he opens his eyes, and sees his bed empty, messy, just as he left it that morning, and melancholy settles into his heart.

Not long after his new ritual began, they offered him a job in VCS. He didn't have to wonder who pulled the strings. Somehow, he hesitated. Despite the handwritten insistence, "Take the job! -S," he couldn't bring himself to fully embrace the opportunity.

So, he compromised. He's working part-time, in a consulting capacity. It gives him the chance to pursue other projects, but also earns him enough income so he can pay the bills.

There are no more X-Files, at least officially, but as a consultant, it's ironically easier to stick his nose into cases that might once have qualified. He doesn't have a regular caseload to attend to, and his expense accounts don't land on the wrong desks.

He has no doubt someone — or more than one someone — is still looking out for him. But they do it from afar; long gone are the days when he could tape an X to his window and get the help he needed, or make a phone call at 3am just to talk.

He still feels that last kiss lingering on his lips, tastes the salt from her tears. He hadn't realized — or hadn't accepted — that that kiss was goodbye.

_"Please don't make this any harder than it already is."_

He was desperate then, so desperate he offered to leave his whole being behind just to make her happy.

She was charmed, at least for a moment. And so she embraced him, kissed him, smiled at him as he made promises he couldn't keep.

And then she walked away.

And so far, she hasn't come back.

Each night, he dreams he is alone with her on the ocean, miles from shore, where the darkness cannot penetrate. She lounges in a bikini while he rows and watches, drinking in her happiness as she drinks in the sunlight.

Each night, he awakens to the same lonely, messy bed.

It occurs to him that he hasn't even washed the sheets, not in seven years, because they still smell a little like her, and he's afraid, if he were to clean away the smell, the dream would dissipate too.

That's all he has left of her, and he's not ready to give it up.

But he understands why she did what she did; he needed to go where she couldn't follow, where she wasn't strong enough anymore to withstand it. She'd lost too much to continue, but she couldn't ask him to be someone he wasn't, no matter how much she loved him.

So she walked away, and in doing so, set him free.

Logically, he knows he'd be unhappy if she'd stayed; he'd constantly be pushing to pursue his interests of passion while she cringed from the sidelines and occasionally was reluctantly pulled onto the field of battle.

Still, he misses her.

Still, he hopes there'll be a day when she's ready to journey, once more, at his side.

He knows now that there will never be a day he's ready to give up the fight. Even when he thought he was, she urged him not to. She knows better than he how much he needs this.

But does he need her too?

Seven years points to no.

And yet...every day, he still squeezes his eyes shut as he enters the bedroom.

Perhaps one day, she'll return.


	5. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder wants happiness for himself and Scully, but an old acquaintance intervenes. Plot vaguely lifted from another TV show - points if you can guess which one (I highly recommend it).

Their wine glasses were almost empty, the food on their plates decimated, and there was nothing left but to gaze into each other's eyes.

"You know, Scully, I really enjoyed being married to you."

"What?!" she asked, wiping the side of her mouth with her napkin, clearly confused.

"In Arcadia," he reminded her, leaning forward slightly and lowering his voice. "I liked...playing house."

She smiled, remembering those few days so many years ago. "We're not playing anymore; if you haven't noticed, we've been living together for ages." He opened his mouth to object, presumably to point out that they hadn't been living as a married couple, so it was different, but she cut him off. "Besides, you were awful, even before you started goading the village monster. And you still haven't learned to put the toilet seat down! Or squeeze toothpaste."

"I'm willing to try," he told her sincerely.

She snorted. "Yeah, like you've been trying for...how many years now? Forget it; I've given up." She folded her napkin and placed it on the table, then began to rise.

He stopped her with a hand on hers, forcing her to sit back down. "Scully, I'm serious. How many times have you had to tell someone I'm not your husband? How many times have they kept me out of your hospital room because I wasn't? Wouldn't it be easier if...?" His voice trailed off.

She pulled her hands away, but maintained solid eye contact. "Nice, Mulder. That's got to be the second-least romantic marriage proposal I've ever heard. Topped only by your order over the phone during a case when we were still partners at the FBI."

"You still remember that?" he squeaked, suddenly bashful. "As I recall, you didn't even acknowledge it."

"You weren't serious," she retorted.

He managed to give her a wounded-puppy-dog look. "If you'd said yes, I would have been."

She scoffed. "Well, I think we've both had a little bit too much to drink tonight, hmm?" With that, she rose quickly, so that he couldn't interfere, and grabbed the wine glasses off the table.

When she returned for more dishes, she found him with one knee on the floor, looking up at her with big, round eyes.

As her jaw dropped open, he popped open a small jewelry box inside his hand. "Dana Katherine Scully, will you marry me?"

She looked down at the box, then slightly further up at his face, then back down, then back up, shifting between the two and blinking furiously to try to make sense of the situation.

Before she could answer, he spoke again. "Please don't say no; as a doctor, you can probably tell me what that'll do to my heart."

She sighed. "Why now?"

He smiled. "I'm ready. Are you?"

Suddenly she was flustered. "I...I'm not sure."

The wounded look was back, but without the puppy dog eyes. Mulder looked down at the floor, his cheeks coloring with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, Scully. I shouldn't have asked you now." He looked back up, his eyes shining with unshed tears, then rose to his feet, never taking his eyes off her as he changed perspective. "It's just, I'm not sure if the time will ever be right, and..."

Now her eyes were shining too as she looked up into his. She gulped and shook her head, then took his hands in hers. "Just give me some time," she begged. "I need to think about it. There are so many things to consider..."

Now he looked confused, and quickly she backtracked. "I don't mean how I feel about you, Mulder. That's not in question. I just meant...whether getting married is a good idea, legally, financially...our lives are complicated, Mulder. You can't deny that. And marriage would make them even more complicated."

"Or simpler," he managed to choke out, somehow appearing small even though he towered over her.

"Maybe," she agreed, "which is why I need some time to think about it."

"All right," he conceded. "Take as much time as you need." With that, he closed the box and pressed it into her hand, then folded her fingers around it. "You let me know when you're ready."

She nodded.

 

* * *

 

The old man lounged in the armchair, puffing a cigarette through the hole in his neck. Former Agent Mulder looked dubiously at him, trying to hide his disgust. "I thought you were dead."

"Oh come now, Fox, you should know better than that by now. Like father, like son. We aren't so easily killed."

Mulder shook his head. "What do you want from me?"

"Does a father need to want something to see his son?" the smoking man asked idly, tapping his cigarette on the side of the ashtray before raising it back to his hole.

"Maybe not any father, but you seem to always want something. So what is it this time?"

"Perhaps it is you who want something from me," the smoking man retorted coyly. "You've asked before."

"I don't need anything from you," Mulder insisted. "I've got a good life. I'm not in the FBI anymore. I don't see how our paths even intersect anymore."

The smoking man chuckled softly. "Ah, but you haven't stopped looking for the truth, have you Fox?" Mulder opened his mouth to speak, but the older man cut him off with a wave of his hand, sending a faint trail of smoke into the air. "And I wouldn't expect any less of you. I'm proud of you, son. I'm glad you're still looking. But there are those who are not so pleased with your continued involvement."

"Just tell me," Mulder said impatiently. "I don't want to play games. Why did you want to meet with me?"

Now the smoking man sighed disappointedly. "I told you I'm glad you're still fighting for the truth, and I want you to continue. And you may very well help save the world, but there is one thing standing in your way."

"And what is that?" Mulder asked apprehensively.

"Dana Scully," the man revealed, and Mulder couldn't hide his slight recoil.

"What have you done to her?" Mulder demanded.

"Oh, nothing. I would never hurt her, not when she might become my daughter-in-law."

Now Mulder gasped. "Might?"

"Well yes," the cigarette man answered, sounding very pleased with himself. "It has come to my attention that you proposed to her, but are still awaiting her reply. Is that not correct?"

"And how the hell would you know that?" Mulder replied, anger seeping into his voice as a feeling of violation settled into his chest.

"I have my sources. In any case, I've come to advise you not to marry Doctor Scully at this time. If you do, you will not be able to stop colonization, and I will not be able to protect her."

Mulder really wanted to strangle the man in front of him, but he knew it would do no good. "And why should I trust you?"

Smoking man shrugged. "It's your choice, of course. Do what you will. But as I said, if you marry her, I cannot protect her...or you. Oh...and if she knows the real reason you're not marrying her, the deal is forfeit. It's up to you, Fox. Either take my advice, or take your chances."

"Thanks," Mulder responded sarcastically. "I'll take it under advisement."

With that, the smoking man rose, leaving his cigarette butt in the ashtray. As he approached the door, he turned around to face his biological son. "Oh and Fox, it was good to see you."

He exited before he could hear Mulder's sardonic reply.

 

* * *

 

Mulder found Scully sitting at her computer, obviously lost in thought. He came up beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder.

"We need to talk," he told her softly.

She looked up and over at him, and nodded. "All right."

He led her to the couch, then sat beside her. "I just wanted to apologize...I didn't mean to put any pressure on you. I've thought about it and...."

"The answer is yes," she blurted out. "Yes, I will marry you."

He gulped, then shook his head. "It's not a good idea, like you said. Our lives are complicated, and you're not ready...er, we're not ready," he quickly corrected himself.

"Mulder, I...," she started, but he couldn't bear to hear what she was going to say.

"I'm sorry," he interrupted. "I shouldn't have asked. I withdraw the offer. But you can keep the ring."

The pain in her eyes as she looked over at him physically stung. "No, Mulder," she told him coldly. Then she got up, walked over to her desk, retrieved the box, and handed it to him. "You take it back to wherever it came from. You'll probably need the money."

His heart skipped a beat. He knew his revelation would wound her, but was she implying that she was leaving him, over this? A few days ago, he hadn't even asked, and now he was kicking himself for doing so. He should have known that fate would never allow them to have a fairytale ending. He should have been happy with what he had, but he'd gotten greedy, and now he wouldn't even have that.

Of course she would leave him now. From her perspective, he'd toyed with her heart. He'd offered her a choice, and then taken it away from her, for reasons she had no way of discerning...and he could not undeceive her, not without putting both their lives, and possibly the fate of the world at risk. Hell, he'd leave himself in her position, but he hoped to heaven that it was worth it, that he'd done the right thing.

For a moment, he wondered whether this had been the smoking man's intent all along, to kill his spirit by killing the one purely good thing in his life.

As he pondered, he realized Scully was already gone.

Mulder put his head in his hands and wept unabashedly for his fate.


	6. Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XF1013 asked for a happy reason for the breakup, so here it is (best I could do).

"Mulder, we need to talk."

He took in her face, her demeanor, and worried. She looked positively frightened, which was odd considering the vast array of monsters and other threats that would send a normal person screaming that he'd seen her face down without even flinching.

Quickly, he reached around behind her and with a gentle touch on her lower back, led her to the couch.

"What's wrong, Scully?" he uttered as she sat down. The familiar sentence tasted bitter on his tongue, and he sat himself beside her.

She looked down at her lap, where her hands were folded, then finally looked back up at him, reading in his face his own apprehension as his own hands clenched and unclenched in his lap.

She attempted a smile, but it quickly faded. "Mulder, I...," her voice trailed off as she was obviously having trouble finding the words.

"Is it the cancer? Something else? Whatever it is, Scully, we'll fight it, together, and we'll win. Just like always." He reached over to touch her arm, but she flinched away, and he pulled back.

She shook her head slightly as a tear ran down her cheek. "I never meant for this to happen."

His heart grew cold, froze into ice. "What?"

"I've met somebody," she finally admitted as another tear streaked its way down her face. "I've never felt this way before...not even with you. I think I'm in love."

When he got over his shock, he nodded. "I want you to be happy, Scully. Who is he?"

She coughed. "Um, actually...it's a she."

His eyes instantly lit up.

"Don't look at me like that, Mulder. Stop thinking whatever you're thinking...dirty mind."

"Who is she?" he asked, trying to hide his smirk.

"Another doctor at the hospital," she admitted, looking away slightly. "I guess I have a problem with falling in love with people I work with."

At that, he smiled. "It's okay. I'm happy for you, really."

Now she looked back at him, clearly surprised. "You took that really well. What are you hiding, Mulder?"

It was his turn to look down at his hands as he blushed slightly. "Uh, well, I've found someone too. Someone we both know very well. And it just happened...."

"Please don't say you're sleeping with Monica," Scully begged.

Mulder chuckled. "As far as I know, she's still with Agent Doggett. Anyway, do you remember when you left me outside in the cold, after I got myself into trouble where those Russian guys were doing head transplants?"

She nodded. "I sent Skinner out to take care of you," she recalled. "I had to save the woman inside. By the time I got out, both he and you were gone."

"Exactly," Mulder agreed. "And Walter, he held me so tenderly, and he told me he'd take care of me...and he did. And he has. In ways you probably don't want to know about."

She raised her eyebrows. "Who would have known. Well, Mulder, I'm happy for you too. For both of you. Goodness knows both of you deserve a break, after all we've been through."

Mulder smiled at her. "Thanks, Scully." Then he paused before continuing again awkwardly, "So, uh, what happens now?"

Scully smiled. "I am going to move out and you are going to keep the house. My girlfriend has a place right near work and she invited me to move in. And where you end up with Skinner is your business."

"So this is goodbye," Mulder assessed. "It feels weird."

"Yeah," Scully agreed. "It does. But I think it'll be good for both of us. And I'm still your friend, Mulder. That'll never change."

"And I'm yours," he agreed, leaning forward and kissing her forehead. "Go be happy."

"You too, Mulder," she concurred.


	7. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date goes awry in the worst possible way; Mulder makes a heart-wrenching decision.

Dana Katherine Scully was exhausted after a long week. To boot, she'd lost two patients: one to another hospital and another set of doctors, and another to death. Neither was unexpected, nor a result of anything she'd personally done wrong, but still she couldn't help feeling that she'd failed them.

She completed the long drive to the secluded house in silence, afraid that the radio would lull her to sleep. When finally she arrived, she dragged herself out of the car and to the door, nothing on her mind but collapsing into bed and sleeping until Monday.

Her companion heard her enter and quickly rose, then greeted her near the door. Immediately he noticed her wearied appearance, and carefully gathered her to him, one arm around her shoulders. Gratefully, she rested her head upon his chest and sighed.

"What's wrong, Scully?" he muttered into her hair.

She pulled back and looked up into his eyes. "One of my patients died," she admitted.

"Was there anything you could have done?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

She lowered her eyes, swallowed, shook her head, then returned her gaze to him.

"I know it's hard," he told her.

"Yeah," she agreed, not sure what else to say. She hadn't noticed that during their whole interaction, he'd been holding one arm behind his back, which now he moved to reveal the bouquet of fresh flowers in his hand.

She gasped slightly. "What are those for?"

"For you," he answered. "I thought you might need some cheering up."

Her eyes widened as she took the flowers from his hand and inhaled the inviting aroma. "You knew already?"

He chuckled. "No. I'm still not psychic, and no, I haven't gotten my mind-reading ability back. But I knew you were having a hard week; it was written all over your face. I hate to see you suffer, Scully."

She gave him a wan smile. "I'm fine, Mulder, just tired."

"And hungry," he observed as her stomach growled loudly. "I'll bet you haven't eaten all day."

She didn't reply verbally, but her face admitted guilt as to his accusation.

"Let me take you out for dinner," he offered.

"Like a date?" she asked incredulously.

"Exactly like a date," he told her, grinning. "We haven't gone on a date in way too long, and I can't remember whether we've ever successfully completed one without getting interrupted by...work stuff."

"Maybe that bodes badly," she pointed out cautiously.

He made a sour face. "Now you sound like me, Scully. Just, indulge me. Let me treat you, show you some romance." He pronounced the last word as if it were magical in and of itself.

She eyed him askance. "I kind of just want to go to bed," she admitted.

"We can go to bed afterwards. And," he continued before she had a chance to object, "at the risk of sounding like my Jewish grandmother, you need to eat."

She smiled again, this time more warmly, suddenly picturing him with curly grey hair and in a dully-colored dress with loafers, then quickly shaking the ludicrous image out of her mind. "All right," she concurred. "It's probably too early to go to bed, anyway. I guess I don't want to be up all night."

"That's the spirit, Scully!" Mulder encouraged. Then, he moved his hand towards her back, intending to lead her out.

"Wait," she told him. "Let me put these in water and freshen up a bit first, okay?"

He nodded, and fifteen minutes later they were in the car: she relaxed in the passenger seat while he drove. He sensed that she wasn't interested in conversation, and figured she would turn on the radio herself if she wanted to listen to music. She didn't, and so they shared a comfortable silence. He thought perhaps she might want to talk once he got her blood sugar higher, but even if not, he'd be happy just to be with her. So many times he'd almost lost her that just her presence was a comfort to him, though he often wondered if she felt the same way: she had always sought out solitude, and he felt as if she were growing more distant by the day. There once was a time he believed she needed him: desperately, even, when he was presumed dead, or unavailable because he was hiding from those who would kill him. But now, while she rarely objected to his presence, he often felt superfluous.

When they arrived at their destination, he got out of the car first, then opened the passenger door and extended a hand to help her out, and as he did so, she graced him with the warm but rare smile he had grown to cherish. With an arm around her shoulder, he escorted her inside, and as the hostess led them to their table, he moved his hand to its familiar spot in the middle of her lower back. It occurred to him that he'd thought of that spot as "his" since the very first time he'd led her through the doorway of his basement office, on their first case, shortly after meeting her.

He knew she was famished when she spent less than a minute perusing the menu before closing it and setting it down in front of her. With her hand free, she reached it across the table towards him, and he extended his own arm and took her hand in his own. The warmth of her palm seemed to radiate into him, spreading comfort through his entire body. He wondered if she derived the same sensation from his touch.

Only when the food arrived did she reluctantly remove her hand from his, so that she could eat, and even then she hesitated, as if contemplating whether she could just eat with one hand: she might have managed; the salmon was soft and could be cut with a fork, but perhaps she'd become slightly self-conscious, too, and Mulder, after all, needed both hands to cut his steak. Her quick glance towards his eyes told him that, although her stomach was demanding food, her brain wanted nothing more than to cuddle with him until she fell asleep.

 _Soon_ , he attempted to convey with his own gaze.

In response, Scully looked down and went to work on her food. Before digging into his own entree, Mulder took a moment to relish in her appetite: too often he worried she ate only because she felt she had to, and not because she had any particular hunger or desire for food. She'd become quite thin, and he'd taken it upon himself to make sure she was getting something substantial into her every day. He couldn't help imagining her embarrassment should she faint at work.

When their plates were clean, she reached over the table again in order to hold his hand, and when he complied, she gave it a quick squeeze to let him know she was ready to go.

"No dessert, Scully?" he asked, pouting slightly. "They have a chocolate cake to die for."

The corners of her mouth turned up once again. "Maybe next time," she offered noncommittally, and the twinkle in her eye said, "I don't need chocolate when I have you."

He grabbed the check before she could argue, and handed it back to the waiter along with a credit card.

They were waiting for it to be returned when suddenly Scully rose from her seat and lurched towards Mulder. "Get down!" she ordered, and before he could react, she was pushing him to the floor.

As they fell, a tangled mass, two gunshots rang out into the air, and the splatter of blood indicated that someone had been hit.

Scully assumed it was Mulder, and immediately attempted to pull back, even as she lay on top of him, in order to assess the damage.

In doing so, she became dizzy, and briefly wondered how she, as an experienced doctor, could become lightheaded at the sight of blood, when she'd never been bothered by it before.

All the while Mulder's expression was so stricken she was sure he must have been hit: that was pain in his face, wasn't it? And fear?

Then she realized she was feeling more than a little faint: she felt the lovely dinner she had just consumed making its way back up her esophagus and managed to roll away from her erstwhile partner just in time.

She could feel herself fading at the edge of consciousness when Mulder's face swam into view above her.

"Stay with me," he begged. "Help me out."

"Are you hurt?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "I'm okay. It's...someone else," he explained, realizing that she wasn't fully aware of the situation, and wanting to use that to his advantage, at least for the moment.

She understood that he needed to treat the gunshot wound, but was still unclear on the victim. Still, she was the doctor, and knew what to do.

"Keep pressure on the wound," she murmured, and then his hands were on her abdomen, pushing desperately against her.

"Good. Now what?" he asked her, his eyes full of panic.

"Keep the patient warm," she recited, and he shrugged off his jacket, awkwardly trying to keep at least one hand pressing down on her while he did so. Then he took the jacket and draped it over her, leaving it open where the blood was spurting out between his fingers.

"Anything else?" he asked, hoping that by keeping her talking, he'd be keeping her alive.

"So tired," she muttered, her eyes fluttering closed.

"You can't sleep yet," he told her. "Soon. What else do I need to do?"

She blinked, trying to focus. "Call for help," she said.

He looked up for a moment and yelled at the crowd that had gathered around the two former agents. "Did someone call 911? Anyone?"

Heads must have nodded, because he returned his attention to Scully, completely ignoring their audience once more. "You're going to be okay," he told her, not really believing it.

"I'm...?" she asked, as realization dawned on her face. "I'm shot."

He nodded, swallowing harshly. "Yeah, but you've got a good doctor."

That got the faintest hint of a smile from her, and more relief than was warranted spilled into his chest.

Then she frowned. "Where'd he go?"

Mulder shook his head, immediately fearing she was referring to the apparition of death, the one she'd supposedly avoided once before, when she was mortally wounded by another gunshot, that one fired in a moronic move by her temporary FBI partner. "Who?"

"The gunman," she insisted. "Where...?"

Mulder looked up and around. "I'm not sure. He's gone. But you saved my life, Scully, and now it's my turn. Did you get a good look at him?"

She shook her head. "Too quick," she admitted breathlessly, then coughed, blood spattering out of her mouth and onto his suit jacket.

"Okay, Scully. Don't worry about it. Don't try to talk; just focus on my voice, okay? Maybe you'll remember more later, but if you don't, that's okay too. Just don't...." He couldn't bring himself to complete the thought aloud: _don't die_. He continued to babble at her: gossip, weather, whatever random things he could think of, as she became more and more unfocused.

Finally, she lost the battle for consciousness, and when her eyes slipped closed, tears spilled from his. He was barely aware when the paramedics pried him away from her and whisked her onto a gurney and into the waiting ambulance. He wanted to go with her, but knew he would just be in the way: they'd have to act fast in order to save her life. Still, icy fear crept into his core as he remembered another time she was in grave danger, when he'd tried to accompany her into the ambulance and they wouldn't let him, then left him shot in the head, lying on the street as they whisked her away...not to a hospital, but literally to the end of the earth, where the Antarctic weather had almost claimed both their lives during his valiant crusade to rescue her. He had no reason to believe this ambulance wasn't legitimate, but still the memories haunted him.

He wished there was something more he could do now.

They'd left the FBI; they weren't supposed to be in danger anymore. But he was convinced this wasn't a coincidence, wasn't some random shooter. He also had a sinking feeling that they'd never see the gunman again; there would be no forensic evidence, and likely not much of investigation.

It was all far too familiar.

If he hadn't been so distressed, he might have laughed when the waiter reappeared briefly, apologetically slipping the credit card back into his hand. "Forget about the bill," he said, by way of apology...and Mulder bit his tongue, knowing the poor guy likely had nothing to do with what had transpired, yet still ready to place blame on the nearest available target.

He would find out who did this, but not now. Now was the time to make sure Scully was okay. Or perhaps, he could tackle both problems simultaneously.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and made a call to the FBI, asking for one Walter Skinner.

As he hung up, he ran to the car and drove as quickly as he could to the hospital, running at least two red lights in the process, forgetting he no longer had his magic "FBI" badge to wave at any policeman who pulled him over.

Luckily — or perhaps as a result of his phone call — he wasn't stopped, and made it to the ER in record time.

They made him wait; she was in surgery, and he lamented the fact that while she was always with him when he was injured — a privilege of being a doctor herself — he couldn't return the favor.

He felt helpless and useless, and spent the eternity of waiting contemplating his proper role in her life.

He was her protector...but not lately.

He was her endangerer...as long as he'd known her.

He no longer had a badge and gun, and neither did she. But somehow, someone still wanted him — or her — or maybe both of them — dead.

He wasn't religious, but he suddenly felt the urge to pray for Scully's life.

He hoped the doctors would perform a miracle in there. Scully was a fighter; she'd pull through, if anyone could.

But that wasn't an excuse to put her in danger. Even if she didn't die, she didn't have to suffer.

It was all his fault. He'd dragged her into this, years ago, and it was his responsibility to drag her out.

But how?

He sat at her bedside, now, holding her hand and waiting for her to wake up. Two guards were posted just outside the door, but still he was nervous. If someone wanted one or both of them dead, chances were they'd be able to accomplish the task. Since he was still alive, and it looked like Scully would pull through, he wondered when they would be back to finish the job, and whether he had any resources at his disposal to stop them.

As expected, there was no evidence to bring in a suspect, let alone convict. Whoever held the gun in that restaurant was long gone, possibly out of the country. Skinner had warned him not to pursue the matter; as usual, he knew more than he was letting on, trying to protect his two former charges, even though he no longer held any authority over them.

Mulder appreciated the effort, but was frustrated at his lack of power to control the situation. He didn't even know whether Scully or he had been the intended target...or maybe it didn't matter; maybe one was as good as the other, when it came to hurting him.

Love and sadness bubbled together in Mulder's heart, and suddenly he knew what he had to do.

Hours or days later — time seemed eternal while she suffered — her eyes fluttered open, and she smiled at him, and he couldn't bring himself to smile back.

"What's wrong?" she asked immediately.

He bit his lip. "Welcome back," he told her. "You've made a miraculous recovery...again."

She puzzled for a moment. "Then why don't you look happy?" she asked.

He sighed. "Not now."

She tried to push herself up on her elbow, but fell back down.

"Don't," he warned. "You're still weak."

Now it was her turn to sigh. "What's going on? I have nothing better to do than discuss it with you right now."

"You need to rest and recover," he insisted.

"I can do that while I'm listening to what you have to say," she responded. "Just talk. I'm going to be fine. Tell me what's on your mind."

His mind flashed back to another hospital room, years ago, when he'd killed a man and faked his death and she'd almost met hers, and he'd been caught in the lie and she'd tried to take the fall.

He knew he should be gentler about it, but he didn't know how. It was bitter news no matter how he presented it, and he owed her the truth.

"I don't think we should be together anymore," he admitted flatly.

She blinked, and tears began to form in her eyes. "What?!"

He grabbed for her hand, but she pulled it back.

"As long as we're together, they'll use you to get to me," he explained. "I thought we were safe now that we're no longer on the X-Files, but obviously that's not the case. You almost got killed last night, and neither of us even had a gun. I can't risk losing you."

She remembered another time when he'd spoken those last five words to her, a time before the heartbreak that was William had become known to them; a time when he'd hidden his own terminal illness from her, for reasons she still didn't understand and they'd never really discussed, as his miraculous recovery after his abduction, death, and resurrection had seemed to render the conversation moot.

Suddenly she was angry, and she felt the need to fight. "Shouldn't I get some say in that decision?" she asked pointedly.

He shook his head. "I can't let you sacrifice yourself for me. Never again. Let me protect you by getting away from you."

Warm tears began to fall from her eyes, and they trickled down her cheeks into her ears. "What if that's not what I want?" she asked. "What if I'd rather be with you than be safe?

He looked down at his hands, twiddled his thumbs. "Won't do you any good to be with me if you're dead," he put it bluntly. "All it takes is once. You were lucky this time, but...."

She couldn't help but gasp slightly; he wasn't giving her a choice. Last time he'd left her "for her safety" it had been a joint decision, one informed by Deputy Director Kersh at the FBI and ultimately called by Scully herself. She'd told him she would be okay without him, that he should save himself, and it had turned out to be a lie. First, she'd had to give up her son, and then she'd almost lost Mulder...again. One might think he would have learned from that experience, yet here they were again, and this time, he wasn't even letting her make the call.

She wanted to argue, to make him see reason: that if they split up, whoever wanted to get to him would win. But she knew from experience that while the vice of guilt was so tightly constricting his thoughts, she would never get through to him. All she could do would be to wait for him to come to his senses; she hoped it wouldn't take too long. But she'd lived without him before; she could do it again. Especially now that she had nobody else relying upon her for their care.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he continued, rising from his seat and bending over to kiss her forehead as a tear dripped from his eye and fell into her hair. "I love you."

And then he was gone.


	8. Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How far will Mulder go to prove he's right?

"Mulder," Scully insisted, exasperation in her voice, "there is absolutely no scientific evidence to support the _theory_ that sex is any better when it's makeup sex."

He waggled his eyebrows at her. "Don't you think you should trust the one of us with the psychology degree on this point? Besides, how many things have you seen, since you met me, that there was no scientific evidence to support?"

She pursed her lips, obviously not wanting to admit to the truthful answer to that question. Her eyes said, "This whole conversation is crazy, and I'm not going to dignify those questions with answers."

"Aha!" he continued triumphantly. "You see? I'm totally right, as always."

She sighed, crossing her arms in front of her chest and leaning back, partially sitting on the desk she stood in front of. "I'm still not buying it."

Mulder sighed back. "You never do, not until I prove it to you. So," he insisted, putting a finger into the air, "I'll prove it to you."

"Just what are you suggesting?" she asked fearfully, righting herself and unconsciously placing her hands on her hips.

"I'm breaking up with you, Scully," he announced firmly, gesticulating wildly as he continued. "That's it, finito, we're done. And when we get back together, we will have the best sex you've ever had."

She snorted, throwing her hands in the air. " _If_ ," she corrected. "What makes you think I'll want to get back together with you after this idiotic, crazy, unscientific, uncontrolled 'experiment' of yours?" She made air quotes with the word 'experiment.'

He shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

She shook her head. "Fine, have it your way." And with that, she turned to walk out the door.

Just before she'd exited, she swiveled around, curiosity getting the better of her. "Just when were you planning for us to get back together, anyway, you know, to, um, maximize the makeup sex experience?"

He looked uncertainly at her. "I haven't planned that far in advance," he admitted. "I guess I'll just know when it's time...or you will."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, good luck with that. See you around, Mr. Loonybin."

As she walked out the door, he couldn't help but grin, anticipating the "I told you so," he would dish out when she lay satisfied beyond recognition in his arms at some unspecified point in the future.

Only then did his smile fade as he began to hope it wouldn't be the too distant future; it might undermine his victory if he needed her to write him a prescription for Cialis first.


	9. Wet Pillow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder thought he could make Scully happy. Maybe he was mistaken. Mulder's POV.

I roll over, expecting to cuddle against a warm body, but find the other side of the bed regrettably unoccupied. My arm flops over the empty space, my hand brushing against the pillow: it's unexpectedly cold, and I realize belatedly, damp.

Last time I woke up next to a wet pillow, I made the mistake of asking my companion directly what happened.

"Sorry," she replied hesitantly, "I must have drooled a little." She even had the good sense to blush a bit, though I doubted the idea of drooling next to me was what prompted that response.

My mind instantly wandered back to a time many years ago, when I'd accused her of drooling as she'd fallen asleep on my shoulder during a stakeout. Her response had been similar: an apology, and slight embarrassment, but I think even then she knew I'd merely been trying to lighten the mood, distract from the mounting sexual tension that increasingly made our time together perilous.

After seven years of dancing around each other, we eventually gave in: I'm surprised how long we lasted...though looking back on it, abductions, cancer, and conspiracies threatening our very lives might have had something to do with our hesitation.

We finally have the opportunity, now, to be together, really together. And not even in secret, as I was granted a full reprieve for my alleged sins upon our brief return to working with the FBI.

I was always sure that, once we had the right time and place, I could make her happy.

Wet pillows suggest differently.

When we first met, she was reluctant to show me her tears, or really any weakness. She was always "fine." Even after she was abducted and almost died, she was "fine." After her father died, she was "fine" and wanted to work. I suspect she was afraid that, had she allowed herself even a moment of vulnerability in front of me, that it would somehow compromise our partnership.

Then there was Donnie Pfaster. And Melissa. And cancer. And Emily. And a psychic surgeon. And failed IVF. And my own abduction and improbable return from the dead only to be sentence to death again. And our miracle child, William, that she had to give up because I wasn't there for her when she needed me.

She was finally comfortable crying in my arms, and I thought for sure that if she'd just let me hold her long enough and tight enough, I could make all her pain go away.

Wet pillows are the evidence I was wrong.

She's withdrawn again: I'm not sure exactly why, but perhaps it's because her tears, now, have something to do with me.

Doggett and Reyes told me in confidence that she cried a lot while I was gone. I thought perhaps it was hormones, due to her pregnancy and post-partum, but I'm with her now, and her tears haven't stopped, and she doesn't even let me see them anymore.

When she suspects her grief might wake me, she leaves, hides in the bathroom or wherever, and all I've got for evidence is a wet pillow.

I know now that I cannot make her happy.

I wish more than anything that I could, but I can't. I can't make Scully happy any more than I could protect Samantha from getting hurt.

I'm not even sure what's bothering her anymore. When I dare to ask, she's reverted to being "fine." I know she's not: there are a million reasons for her to weep, all of which stem from her original involvement with me and the X-Files.

I can only imagine that my continued presence in her daily life is a constant reminder of all of her pain, and that's why she can't heal.

There's only one way I can think of that I can help, now.

I have to break up with her, release her from whatever obligation she feels is keeping her with someone who makes her so melancholy.

I know that when I disappeared before, she was profoundly unhappy, but this time, I won't be gone completely; she'll know I'm okay, just not in her everyday life anymore. This is the only way I can think of that she can be happy.

_Oh God, Scully, I hope this is the right choice. It's going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you._

I find her in the bathroom, as usual, trying to look like nothing's wrong.

I play along, pretend I don't see the redness of her eyes or the wetness on her hand where she must have wiped at them right before I came in.

This time, I won't ask what's wrong or whether she's okay. I know I'll just get an "I'm fine," so what's the use?

"Scully," I tell her matter-of-factly, "we need to talk."

At least I won't be waking up next to a wet pillow anymore.


	10. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's for the shippers. Well, they're all for the shippers, but this one especially.

As Dr. Dana Katherine Scully walked through the door of her secluded house, she was inundated with an inviting aroma, and then practically attacked by the embrace of a large, warm, male body. Before she could remark on the scent, his lips met her own: roughly, desperately...the greeting of a man who hadn't seen his wife in years, though it had only been since the morning.

Finally, he pulled back, leaving them both slightly breathless.

"God, I love you," he remarked when he'd caught his air.

She smiled up at him and audibly inhaled. "Please don't call me God, and what smells so good?"

He winked. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

At her baffled expression, he quickly modified his reply, "It's dinner, silly. I made your favorite."

She sniffed again. "I think I could have guessed that. Thank you."

He helped her shrug off her coat, then hung it on the rack. Placing his hand on the small of her back, he guided her to the dining room, where he pulled out a chair and motioned for her to sit. Then he disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with two steaming plates of food, one of which he set down in front of her, and the other of which he set at his own place before seating himself across from her.

For a few minutes, there were no sounds except the clinking of utensils and her quiet "mmm" as she tasted her food. Finally she looked up to catch him sitting still, not eating, just gazing at her.

"What?" she asked.

"You're hungrier than usual," he remarked. "Rough day at the hospital?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "I've got a strong stomach, but looking at blood and guts all day isn't exactly conducive to an appetite. I think I forgot to eat, and plus, all this, when I got home...." She sighed. "Thank you, again."

"You're welcome," he told her. "But there's something else."

She wiped her mouth with her napkin, then sat back as she laid it back on the table. "It's hard to find a moment to myself these days. Everyone's always asking after you. And not just the FBI."

He shook his head at her. "I'm sorry. I feel guilty, making you support me and all."

She nodded. "I spent enough time without you, Mulder. I'd rather have you alive than dead, and whatever I need to do, I'll do it to get that."

Now he sighed. "Still, there's got to be another way. It's one thing for people to annoy you looking for me, but there are still super soldiers and government conspirators and who knows what else around; if one of them is after me, it's going to be a lot more than an annoyance. And might defeat the purpose of keeping me alive, if they come to kill me. Not to mention you."

"What are you suggesting, Mulder?" Scully asked, trepidation in her voice.

He shook his head. "I think we need to break up."

She stared at him. "After all we've been through? Why?!"

He smirked slightly. "I mean officially. We have to publicly have a fight, then split up. People have to 'know' we're not together. What we do behind closed doors is our business, but it's got to be a secret. We'll have to be careful. You'll need to get an apartment, or I will. Probably makes sense for you since you actually have to go to work and you'd probably appreciate a shorter commute...."

"Nobody will believe it," she interrupted. "People thought we were together even before we were."

"We'll make it convincing," he insisted. "We've convinced people before. Hell, you helped me fake my death once. Even Skinner believed you."

"I'm not entirely sure about that," Scully retorted. "But he was willing to play along, even though he suspected."

"And anyone who suspects will know there's a reason, and will play along, just like Skinner did. Please, Scully, I want as much as you do for us to be together for a long time. But it's not going to work if one or both of us is killed."

She eyed him squarely, seeming to contemplate the situation thoroughly even in the space of only a few seconds. "You've been thinking about this a lot," she observed sagely.

"Yeah," he admitted, looking down guiltily. "I have."

She gave him a small smile of resignation as he looked back up. "All right," she conceded. "Give me your plan."

That night, they made love like they'd never see each other again: even though they hoped they would find moments to steal away together, nothing would be certain in their newly-crafted future.

In the morning, Scully kissed Mulder before heading to work. "I'm going to miss you," she said, and the casual observer might have thought she was just talking about the time she would be at work.

Mulder's voice betrayed little more. "Me too," he told her, then kissed her once more on the forehead. "I'll see you later," he added, a pleading look in his eyes.

She nodded slightly, knowingly, at him, as if to say, "All systems go." They gazed at each other one more time as lovers before staging their public split, and her eyes said, "Trust me."

Just after she walked out the door, he whispered to the empty room, "You're the only one I trust."


	11. Depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More spoilerific than the other chapters. New information suggests that Mulder and Scully broke up as a result of her diagnosis of Mulder as having some sort of depression (DD said manic depression - a.k.a. bipolar disorder, CC said endogenous depression). This is my take on what might have happened there.

"I'm home!" called Dana Scully as she dragged herself through the door, barely summoning the energy to hang up her coat before she dropped her bag on the floor.

When she was not immediately met with an acknowledgement of her existence, she plodded upstairs to investigate, her heart immediately upping its pace as her adrenal gland secreted the hormone necessary to fuel her ability to deal with her anticipated difficulty. With new, nervous energy now coursing through her veins, she opened the door to her bedroom and was assaulted with a whiff of the most foul-scented air she'd smelled in a while...and since she worked in a hospital, among all sorts of medical waste and byproducts, this was particularly remarkable.

Her eyes searched the darkness of the room to find the unmoving lump in her bed, and her heart seemed to leap into her throat, causing her to forcefully swallow. "Mulder?" she murmured, dreading the response — or lack thereof — as she flicked on the light.

And then the lump moved slightly, and she breathed an incredible sigh of relief as she moved to his side, laying a soft hand on his thigh as he groggily opened his eyes a crack. "You're home early," he told her.

She shook her head. "Actually, I'm home late. Have you been in bed this whole time?" she asked him.

"Dunno, what time is it?" he returned, mumbling his words while he sat up slightly and rubbed his eyes.

"It's after midnight," she said. "I was in surgery all day, and then I had to catch up on some paperwork. Plus, it's a long drive. Did you make an appointment with the therapist?"

He coughed slightly. "I took a nap instead."

"Ugh," Scully couldn't help flinching slightly at the stench of his breath. "When was the last time you brushed your teeth? Did you even get up to go to the bathroom? No wait, I'm not sure I want to know. But it's ripe in here. We should open the windows and I need to wash the sheets."

"Now?" Mulder whined. "But you said it's after midnight. Just come to bed."

"You got me all worked up," she told him. "I'm not sure I could sleep anyway. And I certainly can't sleep in here, now. Not until we clean up. And tomorrow, I'm calling the therapist for you. This has gone on too long."

"No, Scully," Mulder objected, reaching out his arms in an attempt to capture her. "No therapist."

"Mulder!" she berated, twisting away from his touch and standing up. "You need to see someone. You need treatment. This is getting ridiculous. And stinky. And you're worrying me."

"No need to worry, Scully," Mulder told her. "I've got you."

"I am not a psychiatrist!" she objected. "I can't help you with this, not directly. If I could, you'd be better already."

"You diagnosed me," he pointed out. "And I don't trust those shrinks anyway."

"You could have been one yourself!" she argued. "You have a degree in psychology. You know I'm right."

He shook his head. "And you know we can't trust anyone," he told her. "How many times did we see a doctor only to find out he was working with Cancer Man or worse? You can treat me. I know you can."

"I can't," she insisted. "I wish I could, but I can't. And it's only you that can't trust anyone. I trust the therapist I found. I was hoping you would make the appointment, but I guess I'm going to have to."

"I won't go," he told her matter-of-factly.

"Then I'll drag you kicking and screaming if I have to," she retorted, her eyes brimming with tears now.

"You know you can't," he pointed out. "I'm bigger than you, and I'll run if you send people after me."

"You're scaring me, Mulder," she murmured quietly, watching him intently.

"Hey," he offered, reaching out again and touching her arm, which she reluctantly accepted without squirming away. "What are you afraid of?"

She looked down momentarily, and tears escaped from her eyes and wandered down her cheeks as she raised her gaze again. "That I'm going to lose you...again. Depression is serious, Mulder. And if I can't treat you, and you won't see someone else, you will die from it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and in the meantime, we're both going to be miserable." With that, she sniffled and used a finger to wipe beneath her nose.

"Then leave," he told her, dropping his hand. "You don't need to be miserable. I don't want you to be miserable."

Her eyes grew wide. "I can't leave you, not like this."

He shrugged. "Soften the blow if I do die," he said.

Scully raised a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob before dropping it heavily. "God, Mulder. Do you have to be so morbid?"

"You're the one that brought it up," he told her. "You said you didn't want to be miserable, so go...be happy. I'm kicking you out. Maybe it's exactly what I need to force me out of the house."

"Does that ever work?" she asked him pointedly.

He sighed. "Only one way to find out. If I'm using you as a crutch, then take away the crutch, and either I'll fall, or I'll learn to walk again."

"What if you fall?" she asked, her voice shaking as she spoke.

"Then there probably wasn't anything you could have done anyway," he answered. Then he reached out and grabbed her hands in his. "I mean it, Scully. Go. You're right, this isn't working. Something needs to change, and in the meantime, you deserve to be happy. You're strong; you'll be fine; you've always been a survivor."

"It's late," she reiterated. "I'm not going anywhere at this hour. And I don't think I could sleep in here even if you weren't trying to kick me out."

"Take the couch downstairs," he said. "And if you're still here in the morning, we'll talk, but I'd rather you weren't."

She nodded solemnly, then retreated downstairs and quietly sobbed, head in hands, until she fell asleep.

It wasn't morning anymore when Fox Mulder finally ventured downstairs, but Scully was gone, along with many of her belongings.

He missed her already. He sighed and resolved to get his life in order...for her.


	12. The World Didn't End

She's never really enjoyed sex, but she bought into the romantic platitudes. It would be different with the right person, at the right time.

Without a doubt she was with the right person. She hadn't loved anyone more in her entire life. She couldn't even imagine herself with anyone else anymore.

And maybe it wasn't the right time when they first met; she was too young and eager and focused on her career. And she probably wouldn't have thrown herself into his arms so readily on their first case together, had she perceived romantic potential. But now? If not now, then when?

The first sign was New Year's, 2000: their first kiss. As he so aptly put it, "The world didn't end."

"No, it didn't," she'd replied, and hoped the utter disappointment wasn't too evident on her face. Wasn't the world supposed to end when you kissed the right person for the first time?

After that, she wasn't sure if they'd ever be together, but one thing led to another: her request for his sperm, the failure of IVF, his utter sweetness and support during the whole ordeal. All while hiding his own illness from her, so she wouldn't have one more thing to worry about.

As the Shadow Man had somehow known, one lonely night she'd simply invited him to her bed. All she'd really wanted was to have his arms around her, as they had been so many times, but she could tell he wanted more. He _needed_ more. And she didn't refuse.

Even when it hurt.

She couldn't say no. Not when he had given her so much, and had suffered so much, and had hinted for so many years at what he really wanted. She owed it to him...didn't she?

And it wasn't his fault, either. He was gentle, caring, attentive, and far more experienced than she. He offered more than she was willing to take: some things she just couldn't be comfortable with, not ever, no matter how much other people might enjoy them. She pushed him away more than once, and he retreated every time, attempting unsuccessfully to hide the hurt look on his face. Surely he didn't want to hurt her, and if he'd known, he would have stopped, but she couldn't tell him.

Afterwards, she tried to hide her tears. She curled up into fetal position and allowed him to spoon around her, relishing the soft touch of his lips upon the back of her neck. He'd gotten what he needed, and she'd gotten what she wanted. It was a fair exchange.

As a physician, she was aware of how it was supposed to work. And as a physician, she could posit a number of diagnoses that would explain her lack of success: asexuality, vaginismus, endometriosis, pelvic inflammatory disease...and yet no medical diagnosis quite fit.

Maybe she just wasn't doing it right. Maybe it would get better with practice.

She didn't get a chance to try again for a long time. First Mulder disappeared, then died, and finally when he returned from the dead, she was very pregnant, and he was very lost: sex was the last thing on either of their minds. And then she gave birth, and it wouldn't have been comfortable or safe so soon post-partum, and days later, he disappeared again.

It was nearly two years later when the opportunity arose: they were on the run, sharing a hotel room. He was hurting; she was scared for their futures, and as he cuddled up to her, kissing her tenderly, she tensed, knowing what he would expect, what he wanted, what he deserved.

She knew he would do anything for her, including going without, had she only said the word. But it was precisely because of this knowledge that she felt obligated to do the same for him.

She told herself it didn't hurt as much the second time around. Maybe because of the physiological changes associated with pregnancy and birth.

But the world still didn't end. Far from it.

Years later, they were living together in the house in the middle of nowhere, and the situation had not changed.

Finally he confronted her. "We don't have to, you know. If you don't want."

 _But I do_ , she wanted to say. _I want to make love to you and have it be a wonderful thing. It just isn't, and I don't know why_. Instead, she replied only, "I know."

But she didn't say no.

She kept hoping. And she kept being disappointed. And she could tell he was disappointed too. There was only so much she could fake, especially around the world's foremost expert on pornography.

"What's wrong, Scully?" he finally asked.

She frantically scrambled for an explanation, one that wouldn't crush his ego or his spirit. She fingered the cross around her neck and it triggered a thought.

"I guess I've never been comfortable with living in sin," she said, hoping he would buy it.

His jaw dropped. "Then let's get married," he suggested when he'd regained his composure. "Let's go to the courthouse right now and sign that paper."

She furrowed her brow. "Now?"

He nodded eagerly, taking her hands in his. "Now." _I'll do anything to keep you around_.

So they went, and signed the paper, and nothing changed.

She could tell he wanted to talk about it, but she just couldn't bring herself to do so. Maybe it was her Catholic upbringing; maybe it was her deep-seated desire to be the virginal angel she'd envisioned herself as when she was a child. Luther Lee Boggs had mentioned her sole childhood venture into rebellious territory, when she'd smoked her mother's cigarette. What he hadn't mentioned, but she suspected he knew, was how guilty and dirty she felt afterwards, and how she'd vowed to be good for the rest of her life. Cigarettes, sex, drugs, even alcohol: that wasn't her, and never would be.

There was a period of time during her life when she'd strayed from the path she set for herself, again. Getting drunk with Ed Jersey, getting a tattoo, almost having sex with him, only to barely make it out alive after he attacked her. Mulder's swift and harsh judgment of her afterwards, his ultra-protectiveness turning to accusation. Later, she blamed the brain tumor she'd found out about not too long afterwards; surely the growth itself had affected her better judgment.

Perhaps it was because of what Mulder thought of her then that she was afraid of what he would think of her now.

Or perhaps she merely didn't want to crush his spirit any more than she already had. _I love you, Mulder, but you suck in bed_. How could she possibly tell him that, or even imply it? Especially when it was at least in part her fault. If she admitted she wasn't enjoying it, he'd want to try new things, things she wasn't comfortable thinking about, let alone actually doing. And if that didn't work, or if she was unwilling to try, he'd blame himself. And he already had more guilt than any human being should ever have to bear, starting with his failure to protect his sister, and ending with his failure to protect his partner.

One night, she was working late, and fell asleep in her office.

She had a spare set of clothes at the hospital, so she showered and changed there, and only returned to the house the next night.

"You didn't come home last night," Mulder observed.

"I fell asleep in the office," she told him honestly. "By the time I woke up, if I'd gone home I would have just had to turn right back around again."

He nodded, seeming to understand.

Without conscious intent, she began to work late more and more, and come home less and less. And when she did come home, she snuck in after Mulder was asleep, and snuck out before he awoke.

She still enjoyed his arms around her as she drifted off to sleep; no matter how far gone he was, he always cuddled up to her and curled around her when she crept into their bed.

But it was naive to think he wouldn't notice, wouldn't know something was up.

"You're not cheating on me, are you Scully?" he asked point-blank one night, having stayed up into the wee hours of the morning in order to be awake when she came home. He was only half joking.

She scoffed. "Of course not, Mulder. It's just...."

"Work. I know." he finished for her. "You know, it's a long commute. Especially so late. I won't mind if you get an apartment closer to work, just for those late nights." His voice cracked as he spoke, as if his very heart were breaking at the suggestion.

But it was an offer, an opportunity, and if she said no, she was sure his heart would completely shatter.

"All right," she agreed. "We'll see."

The studio was right across the street from the hospital, and other than being lonely, it was perfect.

Even when it wasn't late, she found herself too exhausted to get in the car and drive for so long, just to see her husband.

At least, that's what she told herself.

First it was consecutive days, then weeks. She rarely came home on the weekends anymore. And then one day, she realized she hadn't been home for a whole month.

And then she realized that Mulder hadn't said a word about it. Hadn't texted, hadn't emailed, hadn't called.

She wondered what he was doing all alone in that house in the middle of nowhere.

And she found she didn't really want to know. She suspected his video collection was going to good use, a superior alternative to anything she was ever able to provide.

Now, it's been years, and aside from the occasional text or phone call, they don't even speak. And even when they do, it's only because it's someone's birthday, or there's some bit of inconsequential news to share. She wonders, sometimes, whether he knows why she left, but she hopes he doesn't. And she misses his arms around her when she wakes in the morning, but she relishes the freedom that comes with being alone.

The world still hasn't ended.


	13. In The Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is foretold.

Doctor Dana Scully couldn't stop thinking about a particular young boy. No, this boy wasn't her son...she'd pushed that one far enough out of her mind enough times that it had become old habit. That one was tucked away in the dark recesses of her brain, a memory too painful to revisit voluntarily. From time to time, that one would come unbidden to the forefront of her consciousness, and with his image came the inevitable tears she was also practiced at hiding, but never practiced enough.

This boy, however, was part of her daily life, at least for the moment. His parents didn't even know this boy's doctor had been a mother, once; they did, however, understand that she shared their faith, and that was the only thread that allowed her to continue her work as his physician.

It would still be some time before she knew if she had succeeded, or if she'd unnecessarily subjected a dying patient to unspeakable pain.

The boy, for his part, seemed to understand her drive, almost support her, even though he didn't fully understand everything that was happening. She hoped, one day, he would, but for that to happen, he had to first survive.

She'd thought about praying for him — the Catholic hospital, of course, would encourage that — but somehow, after her interactions with the pedophile priest who had helped rescue the missing FBI agent while claiming to be speaking for God, praying seemed less palatable than usual.

As she headed toward the local coffee shop, someone grabbed her arm, and she had to bite her lip to keep from yelping. It seemed an infinity ago when her first instinct would have been to draw her service weapon.

Scully turned around to face the wide, worried eyes of an elderly woman wearing a colorful head scarf and equally colorful, flowing robes. Before she could speak, the woman spoke to her. "I need to speak with you; it's very important."

Before she could formulate a coherent brush-off, she found herself uttering the words, "Do I know you?"

The woman smiled slightly at her. "You will."

Scully sighed. "Well, what is it? I really have to get back to work."

The woman eyed her suspiciously. "Not here. Come."

The former FBI agent should have known better than to obey, but something inside her trusted this unknown woman, and curiosity spurred her to find out what pressing matter needed to be told.

The woman led her down a flight of stairs, into a basement entrance to what looked like an apartment building, then into a finely-decorated room that smelled vaguely of incense. Scully barely had time to read the sign on the door: "Psychic."

The woman motioned for her to sit at the small, round table in the center of the room. She hesitated. "I don't believe in this sort of thing," she tried.

The woman looked askance at her. "There was a time when that was true," she told the doctor, "but you have seen too much. You would not be here otherwise."

Scully bit her lip again, trying not to gasp. _A logical conclusion_ , she reminded herself. _Anyone could have guessed that, given that I'm still here_. Still, she wondered why the woman had clearly targeted her specifically. Did she look like an easy mark? Were the lines on her face evidence of her seemingly endless suffering, something that made her vulnerable to anyone offering any semblance of hope?

Yet, she was here. Might as well stay to see the result.

The psychic meaningfully eyed the collection jar on the table, and Scully resisted rolling her eyes. _Of course she wants money_. She should have exited then, but then she reminded herself that, even if this woman was a fraud, she needed to make a living, and since she was gainfully employed, she had a few dollars to spare. _But she knows I'm a doctor; I'm dressed for work,_ Scully reminded herself. Yet still, she found herself wanting to know what the woman had to say. She drew out her wallet and extracted a twenty-dollar bill, which she placed in the jar.

Then she sat, all the while kicking herself for playing along. _Mulder will rip me for this later_ , she thought. _If he finds out. I suppose I don't have to tell him._

Now, the woman sat across from her and took out an ordinary deck of playing cards. Scully raised her eyebrows. "You're not even going to use Tarot cards?"

The old woman gave a hearty laugh. "Tarot cards are for the tourists," she said. "I'll get just as accurate information from these."

Scully shrugged, now more curious than ever what was going to transpire, even as she expected to be taken advantage of.

The woman shuffled the deck, then turned over the top two cards: the ten of diamonds and king of spades.

"Do the numbers ten and thirteen mean anything to you?" she asked pointedly.

Scully stared at the cards, puzzled. "Not really," she admitted. "Although come to think of it, they do seem...familiar. Is that odd?"

The woman grinned. "Not at all. Let's see what more the cards have to tell." She turned over two more cards: the three of clubs and king of hearts.

"There is someone whose name starts with C," the psychic said, "who bears heavily on your life right now."

 _Christian_ , Scully thought to herself, suddenly even more intrigued. _Maybe she can tell me if Christian will recover._

"You have a man in your life," she continued. "Someone you love dearly. He is your king, and he has stolen your heart."

 _Okay_ , Scully thought to herself, _this is getting cheesy now_.

"Hmm," Scully replied, not wanting to give the psychic any more fodder, but still unable to stop her entirely.

The old woman turned over two more cards: the seven of clubs and the queen of hearts.

"You are going to a dark place," she told Scully. "You will be there for a long time...seven years. But your heart will remain true. As will your king's."

"But?" Scully couldn't help uttering.

The woman turned over two more cards: the twos of clubs and diamonds.

"In order to survive, to be revived at the end of your dark time," the woman said, "you will need to break off the relationship with your king. If you do, there will be good fortune in your future, after the seven years of darkness have transpired. But if you do not, neither of you will ever be seen again."

Now Scully was annoyed. Break up with Mulder? What an absurd notion. After so many years of fighting to be together, this woman who didn't even know her was suggesting they shouldn't be together, that their very existence hinged upon it?

_No way._

She rose in a huff and forced herself to graciously utter, "Thank you, Ma'am, but I think I'll be going now," before she stormed out of the room, up the stairs, and back to her office, forgetting her original errand, but now worked up enough so she didn't need the caffeine anyway.

She blew through the rest of the day, hardly registering what she was doing, then drove home to the remote house where the love of her life resided. As she sat behind the wheel, she felt a heaviness in her chest, a deep worry she wanted desperately to ignore, but could not.

Later that night, she lay awake, and Mulder snaked an arm around her waist. "What's wrong?" he asked, nuzzling her neck.

"Nothing," she tried, but he knew her too well to let that stop him.

"Please don't do that," he begged.

"Do what?" she feigned innocence.

"Shut me out," he told her. "Just tell me what's bothering you. I know it's something."

She sighed. "You'll laugh at me."

She could feel him shaking his head against her back. "No, I won't. I promise."

"Fine," she replied, not really believing him. She rolled over to face him and propped up her head on her hand, supported by her elbow. "I saw a psychic today."

"On the street?" Mulder asked, confused, sitting up and crossing his legs. "That's pretty normal in DC, isn't it?"

"I spoke with her, Mulder," she told him. "She gave me a reading."

"And?" he asked, intrigued.

"She told me to break up with you," Scully admitted. "But it's silly. Said it had something to do with someone whose name started with C, and I couldn't help thinking maybe she meant Christian."

"The boy with the degenerative brain disease?" Mulder asked. "How is he anyway?"

"I don't know yet," Scully responded, "but we'll find out soon. I'm just worried that if I don't do the right thing, he won't survive...and according to the psychic, neither will we. But as I said, it's silly. I mean, since when do I even believe in this stuff?"

Mulder sighed. "I know it's supposed to be my job to be your skeptic now, Scully. You believe and I refute, since it's usually the other way around. But we've both seen our share of psychics, including..."

Scully cut him off, sitting up to face him, mirroring his cross-legged pose. "Don't say his name. I don't want to think about him."

"All right," Mulder conceded. "But the point is, I don't blame you for wanting to take this seriously."

She shook her head. "No, you don't get it. I don't _want_ to believe it. I didn't even want to see her. She pulled me out of the street, and it seemed so urgent. I don't even know what I was thinking."

"You weren't thinking, Scully," Mulder told her, and she opened her mouth to object, but he continued, "you were feeling, and that's okay. Sometimes your gut knows better than your brain. Mine does, anyway."

"Well, what's your gut telling you now?" Scully asked. "If it knows so much, maybe I should listen to it."

"Right now, it wants a midnight snack," Mulder admitted, causing her to giggle slightly. Then his face grew serious. "But it's also telling me that, if something's bothering you this much, there's probably something to it."

"You're not actually suggesting that...?" she asked, disbelieving.

He nodded. "I don't want to disappear forever...do you?"

She shook her head. "No. I want a future...but I want it with you."

"And we'll have it, eventually," he told her. "But only if we do this first. Did she happen to give you a timeline?"

"Seven years," Scully admitted.

Mulder nodded solemnly. "Seven years was the time between when we met and when we kissed for the first time. If we could wait then, we can wait again now." He took her hands in his and squeezed gently. "Let's go to sleep, and tomorrow we'll start making arrangements. But I think some time apart could be good for us. And if it's miserable, you can just come back."

"I can't believe you're taking this seriously," Scully told him, but in the back of her mind, she agreed.

"I love you," he told her as he lay back down in the bed.

"I love you too," she replied, lying down with her back to him.

He leaned forward and kissed her neck. "We'll do whatever it takes to be happy together, eventually."

"Yeah," she agreed, not quite believing she'd just made a major life decision based upon the word of a crazy old woman. _Well, stranger things have happened_ , she thought to herself.

"On a weekly basis," he muttered in his sleep.


	14. Violation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mulder makes a devastating confession.

"I'm going to a New Year's Eve party," she told him offhand while getting dressed. "I don't suppose you'd like to come."

He paused his perusal of the internet long enough to look in her direction while answering. "Not really, no."

He looked back at his screen, but when he didn't hear her moving, he glanced back up. "What?"

She appeared hurt, but he couldn't imagine why.

She glared at him for a while before finally answering his innocent, puppy-dog face with a huff and an explanation. "Ten years, Mulder."

He squinted at her. "What?" he repeated, confused.

She sighed. "At midnight," she spoke softly, "it will be the ten year anniversary of our first kiss."

Suddenly he looked alarmed. "Oh." Then he looked down, but did not resume his activities online.

"So, are you coming?" she asked again.

Every fiber in his body screamed against the urge to go with her. _You're sabotaging yourself again_ , the voice inside his head warned. He ignored it.

"It's not," he stated simply.

Now she squinted at him. "It's not...what?"

"It's not the ten year anniversary. Ten years ago...wasn't our first kiss."

 _Now you've really done it_ , the voice inside his head commented. _She was never supposed to know._

She smiled enigmatically at him. "You're not counting the bee-interrupted attempt before I ended up in Antarctica with an alien growing in my belly, are you?"

He chuckled lightly, then his face grew dark. "No, but even if I did, that wouldn't have been our first either."

Her eyes grew wide. "I'd remember if I kissed you," she told him certainly. "So what gives? Alien memory erasure, lost time, what?"

He pursed his lips. "You didn't kiss me," he admitted carefully. "But I kissed you."

She cocked her head as she eyed him suspiciously. "What are you saying, Mulder?"

He sighed and looked down, then back up at her. "When you had cancer," he told her, "you were lying unconscious in that hospital bed. I came in to visit you, and I didn't have the heart to wake you. I sat on the floor next to your bed and I cried into your hand."

"I know that, Mulder," she told him. "Well, some of it anyway. You told me you'd visited while I was asleep. And I know you were upset. We all were."

He didn't acknowledge her interruption. "After I didn't have any more tears, and you still hadn't awakened, I got up and...I didn't know whether you were going to wake up, or if you were just going to...go, in your sleep. And I didn't want regrets...I pressed my lips to yours, Scully. They were so warm...feverish, even. But warm. You were still alive. But you didn't know. And I didn't expect you to recover. Not then. Especially after kissing you didn't wake you up. I guess you're not Snow White."

Her eyes were wide as she stared at him disbelievingly. Her face paled, and her hand went to her mouth as a tear trickled out of her eye and meandered down her cheek.

He thought for a moment that she would be sick, and rose to stand before her, but then he witnessed a terrifying transformation: her posture straightened, her hand dropped; her face hardened and her eyes grew dark. _Et tu, Mulder?_ she seemed to accuse silently.

Finally, she acknowledged his confession by confirming his guilt, anger undertoning her every word. "You...violated me," she assessed. "You kissed me without my consent."

He nodded. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"And you didn't tell me for...twelve, thirteen years?" she asked incredulously.

"I was never planning to tell you at all," he admitted. "Not after your miraculous recovery. I would have waited if I'd known."

"But you told me now," she said. She raised an eyebrow, "Why? Why now?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I guess I just couldn't hold it in anymore."

She shook her head back at him, and he thought he'd never seen her as disappointed as she was now. She'd once told him that he was the only one she trusted, and he'd violated that trust. She was probably questioning, now, how many _other_ times he might have violated it, and he wished he could reassure her, but even if he told her as much, she probably wouldn't believe it. Not now. Not when he'd just admitted that he was as bad as every killer they'd ever caught, not to mention pretty much every man on the planet, who thought women were property to do with as they please.

How could he ever explain to her that what he did was out of love, not a sense of possession? Was it, really?

"I've gotta go," she finally said, and turned on her heel. She didn't ask him again whether he wanted to come, and he didn't go after her.

And she didn't come home that night. Or the next. Or the one after that.

 _You've got what you wanted_ , the voice in his head assessed. _You're alone again_.

"She deserves better," he spoke aloud, hoping to quiet the voice.

 _She won't find it_ , the voice replied. _She's as plagued by guilt as you are_.

"We'll see," he mumbled, tears trickling down his own cheeks now as loneliness and contrition threatened to overwhelm him completely.

Meanwhile, she also sat in solitude, mulling over what it all meant. _Trust no one_ , said the voice inside her head. _They will all betray you_.

"Yeah," she sighed wistfully, speaking into the emptiness of the room. "Every single last one."


End file.
